Blue Moon Rising

By Rena' Averett

"Blue Moon Rising" is a story of the perfect faithfulness of God, against all odds.
If Rachel Sanders' young life of dysfunction taught her anything, it was that a safe place didn't exist. Then she came face to face with unconditional love. She found her home…but it wasn't a place. It was John Avery, a southern farmer, born and raised, who was humble and kind to a fault.
John and Rachel encounter Jackson Stone, who is by all accounts a city boy. He's a looker, taller than most, and a bundle of mischief with a heart of gold. The three share decades of unobstructed friendship… until the divisive Anastasia Blevins steps into Jackson's world. She's a square peg in a round hole and anything but a country girl.
Rachel's world is shaken as John succumbs to an inoperable brain tumor. Jackson is nowhere to be found. Nearly two years later—when Rachel's pain has turned to bitterness—Jackson returns, bearing his heart and the tragedy that kept him away.
Can Rachel forgive? Will she trust the God she has always called faithful? Will she allow Him to work the brokenness for good? Seasons change, second chances come and a blue moon rises.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350916232

Book preview

BK90080255.jpg

Blue Moon Rising

Copyright © 2023 Rena’ Averett

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

This book is a work of fiction. Any reference to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

The Holy Bible, New International Version ®, NIV ® Copyright © 2011 by Biblica, Inc. ® Used by permission. All rights reserved.

ISBN (Print Edition): 979-8-35091-622-5

ISBN (eBook Edition): 979-8-35091-623-2

Lord, You are my God;

I will exalt you, and praise your name,

for in perfect faithfulness you have done wonderful things,

things planned long ago.

Isaiah 25:1

To Sherry:

Your friendship made the difference.

Thank you.

To the Reader

A stained-glass window is designed with panels of varied shapes, sizes and colors. Viewed individually, each shard lacks significance, meaning, purpose. Yet, in the hands of the artist, he assigns value. Then he creates.

He works until the vision is achieved, determining the perfect placement of each piece. Each sliver holds meaning and adds to the overall beauty. The collaboration of many parts into the whole.

So it is with Blue Moon Rising. Though fiction, the story is inspired by my own journey. The artist, my Heavenly Father, used seemingly unrelated events, encounters and disappointments to create something beautiful. He assigned value even where there seemed to be no value, and worked all the pieces together for good.

Enjoy the story. If you find yourself in the pages of Blue Moon Rising, be assured, our faithful Heavenly Father is there with you. Be encouraged. Be challenged. Be inspired.

Rena’

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter One

Rachel sat up straight away, dropping her feet to the wool rug at her bedside. She rubbed her toes deep into the soft pile. Her body crouched, head bowed, heart racing.

This sleep had been hard. Deep. The sleep that comes from tired emotions rather than a worn body. Naps were few and far between at The Renaissance House. At least for her.

The warmth of the afternoon sun on the old Southern farmhouse reminded of spring’s arrival. Rachel retrieved a handkerchief from under her pillow. She wiped the wet strands away from her face and dabbed the dampness from the nape of her neck.

Rachel’s heartbeat slowed as she gathered her bearings. She refolded the cloth to display the bold monogrammed letters. JS. Her eyes rested on the black threads for a few moments before she tucked the cloth back in place under her pillow.

She stood with caution. Though in pretty good shape for a nearly fifty-year-old, bursitis in her left hip would reach out rather unexpectedly. She drew up the blind, leaning her full weight on the window casing. She gazed to the rolling acres of Avery Farms that extended behind the home.

It seemed just yesterday she had looked out over the same barren field. Desiring change. Growth. And choosing it. A year had so quickly come and gone. She was thankful for spring. Winter months were Rachel’s least favorite. The dry earth revealing only remnants of the past season’s bounty. Stalks…stems…dirt. A season of dormancy that could bring uneasy, low emotions and a longing for something new—anything new. Rachel’s winter had been longer than it should.

Come, spring! Please, come! It had answered.

The ground had been prepared. It was ready to receive the seeds that would bring the expected harvest. The field would again be green and lush. She breathed a deep, satisfying breath. Tomorrow.

Rachel’s phone alerted of the afternoon schedule. A few hurried moments were spent regaining a physical presentation appropriate for her role as host. She twisted her wavey, blonde locks up and off her neck with a ruby-studded clip. A hairpiece too charming for a regular day of work. With one last glance, she closed the door to her private living area and rushed to the kitchen to tend the chores.

The door of the oven was pulled down a third time. Cookies would be served at three o’clock. Though the timer was still ticking, the quirky oven was rarely compliant. Ten minutes was not enough time for baking. One minute more seemed too much. Rachel reached in and took hold of the baking sheet with the end of her worn apron and placed the confections on the stovetop.

Rachel’s Renaissance cookies had become a favorite for her guests. She wanted them to be unforgettable each time. Oatmeal, chocolate chips, and pecans. Pecans she gathered from her own trees. As the baking progressed, the aroma wafted through the house drawing the guests to the gathering room in anticipation.

Today, there was only one guest.

The German cuckoo clock hanging over the Depression-era buffet announced the time. The Fraulein exited the double doors of the timepiece and proceeded to twirl as the track moved her about. By the time the wooden figure’s performance was complete and the triple cuckoo had ended, Rachel had the refreshments arranged on the buffet.

A homegrown bouquet of early gardenias accented the display. Rachel’s favorite. Her heart would never release the memory of the first delicate, white blooms he presented on her doorstep. His blue eyes focused, body pressed in. His soft lips delivering an ever-so-gentle kiss to her cheekbone. His warm breath on her ear. A shiver coursed through her body even now.

Rachel took a deep, cleansing breath and returned to the task before her. It was teatime. Though tea was rarely the drink of choice for her guests, the term seemed to suit her bed-and-breakfast patrons.

The lone female guest was already in the gathering room when her host entered. The musical pronouncement of the time did not seem to rouse her from her intrigue, nor did the presence of a second person. Her movement was methodical. She tended to every detail of the layers of vintage décor on the craftsman-style fireplace shelving. She touched the artifacts, picked them up, investigated them, and then carefully returned them to their assigned places.

The gathering room had a defining stature, with ceilings reaching ten feet. The ceilings and walls were of unpainted pine, original to the century-old home. Rachel’s own hands had uncovered this stunning treasure when she removed the brittle paper and cheesecloth from its 1920s walls and discolored tiles from the ceiling. It had been a labor of love that had revealed the natural beauty others strove to recreate.

Paintings were double-hung in the English cottage style. Turn-of-the-century furniture was coupled with mid-century modern pieces that were purposeful yet intended for comfort.

Windows larger than six feet flanked the home. Filtered light was abundant and changed throughout the day with the shifting of the sun. The sunsets of the west-facing gathering room were a bonus neither Rachel nor her guests could resist. Cozy seating invited observers to linger.

A maple dining table handed down by Rachel’s mother stood adorned with a blue and white checkered tablecloth. Each occasion of passing found Rachel tracking her fingers over the delicate cloth, her mind stepping back to a distant time and place. Delicious homemade breakfasts of The Renaissance House were presented here. Service was daily at eight o’clock sharp.

The gabled front porch extended from the dining area, with satisfying views of livestock and barns in the distance. Early risers, with coffee in hand, often reported the soothing sounds of cattle lowing in the adjoining field, hidden by the low morning fog. Farm life.

Oh my! Hello! The young lady approached and extended her hand. I apologize for my rudeness. My mother says I get lost in the details. I must admit, your home has enough details to keep me distracted for a long time. Rachel smiled and attempted a response. Her guest interrupted. It’s hard to put into words, but the atmosphere makes me want to nuzzle deep in that leather armchair and relax, which, I assure you, I never do! There’s a peaceful charm here. It draws me in.

The guest looked Rachel square in the face. Wow! If you could bottle this!

Rachel chuckled at the candid expressions of this energetic young woman, who reminded her of her own daughters. Her chatter was delightful and welcomed.

Well, Samantha, you take a seat in the armchair, and I’ll get your cookies. Milk? The young lady nodded and willingly obeyed.

It reminds me of my grandma’s place. Without the smell of old people, of course. A sheepish look came over the young woman’s face. No disrespect intended.

Rachel presented the homemade snack on Granny Mae’s Currier and Ives dessert plate, garnished with fresh strawberries, a chilled glass of milk, and a delicate cloth napkin embroidered with a formal cursive letter S.

None taken. Rachel was amused.

Will you sit with me? I have so many questions about your home. And the details. I’m a researcher by profession. Questioning is in my nature.

Rachel conceded her shorter-than-normal list of chores and agreed. The guest’s request was unusual. On this day, Rachel was feeling a little unusual.

On the eve of the planting of this year’s crop, change was in the air. Change she needed. Change for which she longed. She could feel it.

With a hot cup of hazelnut decaf in hand, Rachel sat in the cushioned rattan chair across the room from her boisterous guest and reached for a coaster. She moved the photo on the side table ever so slightly to accommodate its placement.

My mom calls me Sam. So should you!

Rachel nodded. Gladly.

I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you allowing me a few days here. I realize you were not taking bookings this week. I just want you to know I appreciate it.

Rachel nodded in an accepting gesture. It’s my pleasure!

As Sam spoke, her eyes were drawn to the picture on the side table. A couple in formal wedding attire sat on a red tufted sofa in the middle of a grassy field.

I love your wedding dress! Vintage becomes you!

Rachel turned to the photo. Her heart remembered the soft breeze that afternoon at sunset and the gentle waves of hay that had surrounded them. Their love was ripe. Her body had recorded it.

He’s tall, dark, and handsome, as they say. You guys look so happy. Rachel sighed. A satisfying grin lifted her cheeks. Yes, it was a day we’ll never forget.

I hope my stay hasn’t interrupted any plans for you and…. Sam nodded her head toward the photo.

Oh, Jackson! His name is Jackson. And no, there are… no plans. Rachel shifted the conversation from the inquiry. More milk?

No, ma’am. But you can tell me about the contraption mounted on the wall behind you. It looks like there might be a story. At least I hope so!

Sam had referenced the age-old oxen yoke. Yes, there’s a story. Rachel leaned back in her chair, looking over at the only other photo in the room. Sam followed her gaze to an ornate frame hanging on the wall.

A frail gentleman sat on the porch steps with Rachel leaning in close, her arm clasped in his. Adult children who carried the look of either the patriarch or matriarch, or both, proudly surrounded the couple. Grandchildren were perched near their parents. The oldest was scarcely two. Sam arose and approached the photograph. She exchanged a few quick glances between the two photos—the two couples.

"Is that your family? Was the picture taken on this front porch? Is that your…husband?

Your…first husband?"

Rachel’s eyes were glued to the photo. She took a deep breath, then began. "Yes, my…first husband. His name was John.

The oxen yoke was my gift to John on the last Christmas we shared. That family photo was taken on the same day. Christmas Day. On this front porch. Our final photo.

John grew up on the farm that surrounded the house. He understood farm implements and appreciated the old ways that came before the modern conveniences he enjoyed. Though he loved the gift itself, it was the Biblical message of yokes that was Rachel’s purpose in giving it.

God made a promise to Rachel when she was young. The yoke was a symbol of the promise and the life she shared with John Avery. A life of love, faith, and ultimately purpose.

Yokes were made from a solid wooden beam and used by farmers with oxen up until the mid-nineteenth century. Then horses. Then came machinery. The yoke fit over the necks of the two oxen, joining them together. See the indentions where the yoke rubbed the neck of each animal?

Sam reached up, moving her fingers across the worn curves. She studied the piece with great care. My grandmother told me about this once. She was sharing a verse from her Bible. I just couldn’t get a picture in my head of what she meant. Now her words make so much sense.

"Your grandmother knew the truth. Two people united in purpose and common direction can accomplish much. The work that was done by the oxen was called the burden. Using the yoke evenly distributed the burden between the two and maintained common direction.

What a beautiful picture of relationship the way God intended! God promised that if I would commit to His ways and wait on Him, He would bless me with a husband who would walk the shared path He had chosen for us.

Rachel looked back at the photo. Her gaze locked. That was the last Christmas on earth with my promise.

Christmas morning was always hectic. John and Rachel Avery were the first risers. They tiptoed through the house, ensuring their job as Santa’s helpers had met all expectations. Then the traditional Christmas breakfast started. Delightful aromas of French toast and baked ham would bring the family out of bed and into the gathering room.

This year, John wasn’t tiptoeing through the house. His gait had changed, making his pronounced steps labored and uncertain. Double vision was permanent. Necessary steroids caused a nightmare of agitation from sounds and movement.

And the pain. The pain had taken on a life of its own. It was unrelenting. The most recent growth of the midbrain glioma brought more pain, less strength and increasing periods of confusion. The five years since the diagnosis had taken their toll.

John sat on the edge of the bed, holding his balance. Let me help you get dressed, then we can walk together to your recliner. I’ll deliver your coffee personally. Rachel made eye contact, giving John a reassuring smile and a kiss on the forehead.

I’d like…to wear…my green plaid. His words were thick, his speech labored. Since it’s Christ-mas. As John attempted the buttons on his Christmas shirt, Rachel went ahead and plugged in the tree. It would have never been his choice to leave the day’s preparations to his wife alone. It was no longer about choice.

The house was still tranquil when Rachel delivered John’s coffee to the table beside his blue leather recliner. He reached out and touched her arm. Stay. Rachel lowered herself to her knees in front of his chair. She leaned close, looking into his eyes. The white tree lights cast a calming glow on his face.

I can’t keep…my promise to you. The yuletide magic in Rachel’s eyes shifted. Her heart caught in her throat.

No! Don’t say it! She knew what his words meant. She wasn’t prepared to hear them.

I … I promised I wouldn’t…leave you. I know now…I can’t honor…that promise.

The words were spoken. Tears filled Rachel’s eyes and trailed down her cheeks.

I know. I know you can’t! She grasped John’s hands and pressed them to her face. Tears gathered in his eyes.

You have suffered more than anyone should be allowed. I’m just selfish. I want you here! She couldn’t imagine life without John. He was the kindest man she had ever known. She had never experienced love like his.

Rachel couldn’t imagine that brain cancer could take him. Take their life. Their dreams. Their plans. She couldn’t fathom that God would allow it.

The two lovers sat for a long period. Her head rested on his lap as his hand brushed across her hair. No words were spoken. None were needed.

Rachel shook herself from the intimate moment and stood. I have a special gift for you! She stepped over to the long coffee table with a cloth drape. The coffee table was a family heirloom that always sat center stage in their home. It had seen fifty years of living through the eyes of John Avery.

The massive table was constructed of rough-cut two-by-ten oak from Avery Farms. The Avery daughters grew up building tents around it, making it their stage while they put on plays, and napping underneath it. Today, it held what would be the last gift for John. One of the most meaningful of his life. Rachel removed the sheet. John knew exactly what his gift was. A yoke! He smiled with satisfaction.

This symbolizes two important truths. First, that God yoked us together. He promised to send you, and he did. For that, I am forever grateful! The life we have shared has been a treasure.

Also, in this moment, I offer this yoke to you as an encouragement of the words of Jesus that I pray will bring you comfort. Rachel flipped through the pages of John’s Bible, which was resting beside his chair.

She found the Book of Matthew and moved her finger down the page to the eleventh chapter. Beginning at verse twenty-eight, she whispered the words of their Lord before him.

"Come unto me, all who are weary and burdened,

and I will give you rest.

Take my yoke upon you and learn from me,

for I am gentle and humble in heart,

and you will find rest for your souls.

For my yoke is easy and my burden light."

Chapter Two

It was her sophomore year. Rachel was glad to be working in the college bookstore. A little extra cash brought added security. Jobs like this were a priority for students receiving the Pell Grant. A few hours a day suited her.

From her desk in the corner of the room, she greeted one customer at a time. All that was needed was a class schedule. From a single piece of paper, Rachel rushed about the aisles of shelving to fill each